


A Machine's Best Friend

by Nock_and_Bolt



Series: DBH One-Shots [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Good Dog Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Hurt, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25948771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nock_and_Bolt/pseuds/Nock_and_Bolt
Summary: Connor faces perhaps his most difficult mission yet: training Hank’s St. Bernard Sumo.First fluff, then feels. (Like,feels.)
Relationships: Connor & Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson & Connor & Sumo, Hank Anderson & Sumo
Series: DBH One-Shots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784659
Comments: 10
Kudos: 57





	A Machine's Best Friend

Sumo was never the most obedient of dogs.

In fact, he was probably the least well-trained canine the RK800 had thus far come into contact with. He was always stealing scraps off the countertops, digging in the trash, traipsing mud into the house, and leaping onto the furniture. The entirety of Lieutenant Anderson’s house was covered in a fine layer of St. Bernard shedding and drool—and Connor didn’t even need his scanners to see that.

Not to mention the dog’s baffling affinity for chewing on shoes and couch cushions and table legs. He didn’t seem to understand the concept of “sit,” “stay,” “lay down,” “roll over,” or “fetch,” and Connor had seen firsthand how Sumo reacted to the command to “attack” any intruders. No matter the instruction, he would only stare at you with those large, drooping eyes, utterly uncomprehending, and perhaps bark once or twice. 

In short, Connor loved Sumo to pieces.

At the St. Bernard’s core, he was just a big teddy bear. A one hundred and seventy-pound teddy bear, but a teddy bear nonetheless. Friendly, loyal, and easygoing (not to mention plush and huggable), it was always a joy to come home to that furry face. 

Home. He hoped the lieutenant didn’t mind that he had started thinking of the man’s house in those terms. A few months after the android revolution, after Hank discovered that Connor had all of half a storage closet to stasis in at the DPD (having previously returned to CyberLife for the occasional stasis, he had no designated space among the north wall allotted for police androids), the man had haltingly, and with several aborted attempts, offered the RK800 the occasional spot on his couch to spend the night.

Connor hadn’t wanted to impose, and at first, it was a rarity. He would only stay when it was late—when they were already at his house, reviewing the facts of some case, or returning from a trip to a crime scene, or after a particularly tough case when the android sensed the lieutenant needed company other than the Jack Daniels variety.

It had become more common over time, however. For all intents and purposes, the android had unofficially moved in. And Connor couldn’t be better pleased with how things worked out.

He’d fully admit to the fact that a large part of this was because it meant he got to see Sumo more often.

There were few things more comforting in his newfound freedom than an evening spent watching basketball with Hank while running his fingers through Sumo’s soft, thick fur.

Yes, Sumo was a good dog, no matter if he never listened, no matter the mischief he got up to. 

But that didn’t mean there wasn’t room for improvement. 

And it was Connor’s newfound mission to oversee this improvement and train Sumo.

He began with teaching Sumo how to fetch. He figured it was a good starting point since most dogs had an instinct to chase small, moving objects. 

It was a sunny Saturday morning in the backyard when he embarked on his quest. Clouds scattered across the sky like the stuffed remains of a Sumo-subjected couch cushion. A perfect day for fetch.

“First order of business,” he announced to his slobbering student. “Convincing you to chase after the stick.” He brought out from behind his back a foot-long piece of bark roughly an inch in diameter. He may or may not have scoured Capitol Park in search of the perfect dog-training device, and he was confident that his selection was optimal for conducting the time-honored art of fetch.

“Go get it!” he encouraged, tossing the stick a distance away. “Come on Sumo! Fetch!”

Large brown eyes blinked lazily up at him. Connor wasn’t even sure if he’d looked at the thrown projectile.

Perhaps he needed a demonstration. “Like _this_ ,” he said, jogging over to the piece of wood and retrieving it. He showed the stick to Sumo and allowed him to sniff it.

Then he tossed it again. “Go on, boy! You can do it!”

The wood fell limply to the ground.

“You know they have the saying ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’ for a reason, right?” Hank stood on the porch, leaning against the doorframe with a raised brow and amusement glittering in his eyes.

“Hank!” Connor beamed, before going to retrieve the neglected stick once more. “Well, Sumo may be a little up in age, but he’s got some good long years left in him. I’ve got faith in the big guy.” He ruffled the St. Bernard’s head and scratched behind his ears. “Yeah, I’ll bet you have some tricks up your shaggy sleeves. We’ll show him, won’t we, buddy?”

Hank snorted. “Damn dog doesn’t listen to anybody but himself. You’re wasting your time.”

Connor threw the stick again. He pointed after it excitedly. “Fetch!”

Sumo thumped his tail against the ground but didn’t move from where he sat. Connor retrieved the stick. 

And round and round they went. Or rather, Connor went. 

After several more failed attempts, Connor switched tactics. He held Sumo back so the dog would reflexively strain against him and perhaps take off once he let go. When he released him, however, the dog only slid down to lie in the grass. The canine pillowed his head atop his crossed forepaws and gave a small woof. 

Connor tried motivating him with treats, with praise and affection, and with an old and partially decomposing toy from Sumo’s puppy days, all to no avail.

Connor fetched the stick fifty-six times that day. 

“You know, I think we really made some significant progress today,” Connor said.

“Really.” 

The lieutenant sat lounging in a chair, reading one of his paperback books in a dim circle of yellow light. He had headed back inside after the eighteenth throw.

Connor hummed affirmatively. “The last couple of times he went a few steps in the stick’s direction.”

“Uh-huh. Sounds promising.”

* * *

A dedicated week of fetching practice passed. Connor even convinced Hank to buy an assortment of toys that the canine might be more inclined to chase, to no effect. A bright red frisbee had seemed promising at first but ultimately proved just as unfruitful. It was time to change gears.

“Not going to the backyard today? Finally admitting defeat?” The silver-haired man was at the kitchen table making notes on a legal pad for the eyewitness interview they had scheduled for the next morning.

“Please, lieutenant, you know that I always accomplish my mission. This is just a temporary setback,” Connor replied. 

“‘Setback,’ sure,” Hank grunted.

“I was perhaps too ambitious in my initial approach. This time, I’m trying something Sumo might be a little more inclined to do.”

“Such as?”

“Sit!” he commanded Sumo.

Sumo plodded past the RK800 to his water bowl. The sound of liquid being lapped up and sloshed over the sides of the bowl wasn’t quite loud enough to hide the lieutenant’s snicker from Connor’s audio processors.

“We’ll get there, eventually.”

...

They did not get there eventually.

It was almost impressive how a dog so fond of sitting could suddenly do anything but that.

“I think he’s deliberately doing the opposite of what you say,” Hank said four days later, eyeing the android with his head buried in his arms on the kitchen table.

“He is not. Sumo, sit!” Connor pointed at the dog without moving from his position. “See, look, I’ve trained him.”

“He was already sitting when you said that.”

“But did he _stand up?”_

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m just trying my best over here, Hank.”

* * *

After Connor’s entirely non-negotiable success with teaching Sumo to sit, he moved on to the next logical command: “stay.”

All things considered, this was the single directive Sumo was most likely to obey. Whether sprawled on the couch, prone on the floor, half-asleep or sitting at his food and water bowls, the law of inertia was on Connor’s side in this matter.

 _“Sit,”_ Connor told Sumo. It was entirely irrelevant whether or not the dog had already been sitting. “Good, now stay. _Stay…_ ” The RK800 retreated from the St. Bernard slowly, pinning the dog with a warning stare. 

Sumo cocked his head, intrigued by the android’s strange behavior.

_“Stay…”_

Sumo pushed to his feet and treaded towards Connor, tail wagging and tongue lolling.

Connor sighed.

“Is that thirty-five to zero, Sumo?” a voice called from the bathroom.

The RK800 flopped onto the floor at the foot of the couch. “Since when have you been keeping count?”

Oblivious to the RK800’s growing despair, Sumo nudged Connor’s hand with his large, wet nose. Reflexively, he started petting the dog, under the chin and where the collar hit on the back of his neck. 

“Why do you never listen to what I say, huh?” he cupped the dog’s head on either side and pressed his forehead against the canine’s. Sumo’s head was warm. The brown and white fur tickled against Connor’s synthskin.

Sumo woofed, tossing his head slightly, and the android was suddenly being subjected to an attack of slobbery kisses and stale dog breath. Connor laughed, face scrunching as he leaned away. Sumo, however, evidently saw this as an opportunity to plant his paws on Connor’s torso. Air left his synthetic lungs in a whoosh and the famous deviant hunter lay splayed on the living room floor, pinned by the dog. 

Sumo seemed content to stay there and gave no indication of moving. Connor exhaled a laugh and continued petting the dog. “Never ever listens. You’re a stubborn boy, aren’t you?”

At least he had a good view of the ceiling. Off-white plaster and bubbled up in places, likely due to water damage. One particular corner appeared to form the petals of a misshapen flower. A cherry or plum blossom, perhaps. Connor patted Sumo’s back, the soft rise and fall of the canine’s chest pressing against his own. The seven-year-old St. Bernard was heavy and might have been crushing his ability to breathe, had he needed to, but Connor found he sort of liked the pressure and warmth. 

“That’s okay,” Connor said. “Yeah. I wasn’t that fond of following orders either.”

* * *

Connor stopped trying to teach Sumo any more commands, though he still discouraged him from his less desirable habits, such as rooting through the trash or chewing on Connor’s single pair of shoes. This mainly involved moving those things out of Sumo’s reach, but the RK800 liked to think he was still accomplishing his mission.

Hank had grumbled about Connor’s suggestion to put the trash under the counter with a child lock, but after the android got him to try it out for a week and they faced no incidents of coming home to days-old Chinese takeout strewn across the floor, the man eventually conceded it might have helped. 

“You can always practice your shooting skills at other garbage cans,” Connor reassured the lieutenant. Hank scoffed.

“That was not the reason I didn’t want to do it. Just thought—too much effort, you know? Locking up garbage like it’s fucking Fort Knox or sumth’in. Seems over the top.”

Two days later Connor passed the man throwing a wadded up scrap of paper towards the spot the trash can _used_ to be. When it smacked against the floor, he looked up from writing the new grocery list, cursing, and moved to go pick it back up.

Connor coughed. “Definitely the reason.”

“Shut up.”

...

When Hank eventually caught on to the fact that Connor had stopped trying to teach Sumo commands, however, the tables turned.

“No more lessons in tricks? I told you he was a stubborn thing,” Hank said smugly. Far too smugly. “Sumo finally got the better of you.”

“He did not ‘get the better of me.’ We came to an understanding.”

“Face it, Connor, you were beaten by a dog.”

“As a living being, Sumo has exercised his right to choose, and I respect that.”

Hank laughed, and when Connor opened his mouth to support his claims further, the man just clapped a hand on the android’s shoulder.

“Relax, kiddo. Sometimes it’s okay to lose,” he said with a grin. “Especially to such a formidable opponent.”

Connor sighed, his arguments deflating like one of Sumo’s old toys. Then he considered, eyes narrowing in thought.

“You’re...probably right. I mean, how could I stand a chance when you’ve had him for _years_ and never made _any_ progress?” The hand on his shoulder shifted.

“Hey, now—”

“The prime time to train Sumo would have been his younger years, and if you accomplished _nothing_ in all that _very long time_ you had with him without my help—”

“We were talking about you, not me—”

“If only someone had gotten through to him when he was still a young puppy,” Connor lamented, shaking his head. “They have that saying for a reason, you know. ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’”

The silver-haired man gave Connor a small shove. “Sometimes you can be a real pain. Don’t you have a walk you need to be taking someone on right about now?”

From Connor’s extensive network of databases, a recurring suggestion for how to prevent a dog from gnawing on off-limit items was to take them on more walks, making sure they got plenty of exercise so that any excess energy wasn’t turned towards less destructive activities. While it was unclear how much of Sumo’s mastication of the furniture was actually attributable to “excess energy,” Connor had taken to the suggestion most heartily. For the past several weeks, he had made it a habit to walk Sumo whenever he could. 

With Connor and Hank’s work schedule, however, these excursions often ended up being snuck in either very early or late at night. So when Hank suggested such a thing at roughly 11:45 pm, Connor’s immediate reaction was to search for the St. Bernard’s leash instead of calling out the lieutenant’s blatant redirection. Regardless of how he was winning this particular round of verbal jousting, he would hate to forget to take Sumo out on one of their nightly adventures.

“Do you wanna go on a walk, Sumo? Do you wanna go on a walk?”

The dog in question rose and stretched with a yawn while the android rushed about the room. Sumo shook out his coat and then ambled over toward the front door, plopping down beside it. Connor threw one of Hank’s old Detroit Police hoodies on, the arms flapping around madly until he got his arms through. He snagged Sumo’s leash and clipped it to his collar with one hand while he finished tugging on a shoe with the other, and they were ready to go.

“I think you’re more excited about this than he is,” Hank observed.

“You sure you don’t want to come with us this time?” The days when it was all three of them together were Connor’s absolute favorite, but the lieutenant understandably did not share the same level of zeal as Connor for dog walking.

“Nah,” Hank scratched his back. “I’ll probably turn in for the night. Sumo ain’t the only one getting along in years.”

“Okay, maybe next time. Sleep well, lieutenant!”

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t be so loud when you come back in, eh?”

A short promise later, Connor and Sumo were out in the crisp, cool air. Connor breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of petrichor and the way the chill filled his synthetic lungs. It had rained earlier that evening and the grass glistened with moisture, illuminated by the light of the full moon.

They usually took a couple of laps around the neighborhood or a walk along the river, but Sumo had more energy tonight so they went farther, following the bank to a small lake at a park nearby. 

“They say space tourism is becoming very popular nowadays,” he said conversationally as they walked beneath the boughs of a ginkgo tree. Sumo may not follow instructions, but he was an excellent listener. 

Shadows shifted across the dirt path and moonlight streamed through the branches in a mottled mosaic. What Sumo would think of the Earth viewed from outer space? What would he do in zero gravity?

“Probably float away while laying down, finding novel ways to circumvent directions to ‘stay’ or ‘come,’” he said, smiling down at the furry head bobbing in front of him. Impossible dog. He let out a dramatic sigh. 

“All right, Hank seems to think there needs to be some sort of formal pronouncement on this battle of wills between us. I will only say this once, though, so you better listen close while you can: I yield. You win. You’ve beaten the most advanced android ever created through sheer doggedness.”

Sumo, predictably, didn’t respond. At least he wasn’t gloating as a certain lieutenant would have. On this pleasant promenade with Sumo, Connor found that the admission of his less than stellar track record for “always accomplishing his mission” didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

“H’...you!”

Connor’s eyes snapped from the stars to the swaying figure a few paces in front of them. Muscled, an inch or two taller than Connor, and under the influence of _something_. A scan indicated it was likely alcohol or red ice. Maybe both. 

“W’chu, ya pl’stick fuck do’in out ‘ere?” 

Connor was suddenly conscious of the shining LED at his temple, which was likely highly visible in the darkness. He should’ve worn his beanie.

“Just going for a walk,” he said, hand tightening around Sumo’s leash. “Actually, we were just about to head back.”

The man scoffed, spraying spittle. He rubbed a hand over his heavily whiskered face. “A walk? W’th yer _pet_ , and those _clothes_ —wha, think you’re sum kind’ve human? Think you’re a _real boy_ now an’ ev’ryth’n j’s cause s’m other f’ckers did a song and dance?”

The man stumbled forwards. “You’re nuth’in,” he said, pointing accusingly at Connor. Sumo growled. Connor backed up, tugging on Sumo’s leash. He could take the man in a fight, but he had no desire to brawl with an angry individual under the influence, and he wasn’t sure how he might apprehend the man while juggling Sumo. He was sure the law would catch up with him eventually, one way or another.

“We’re leaving,” the RK800 said firmly. He was half dragging Sumo along. The dog wasn’t letting the man out of his sight.

“S’wrong? ‘Fraid sum’in _bad_ mi’ happen to you?” Metal flashed like another sliver of moonlight. “W’s it to you? Yer jus’ a bunch of zeros and ones, y’ don’t _feel_ ,” he snarled, swinging his arm up towards Connor. 

Sumo lunged, ripping the leash out of Connor’s hand. 

“Sumo, no!”

Gunshots split the night. 

Man and dog fell, tangled in a heap of limps. Then the forms shifted, and a yelp echoed through the trees. The man shoved Sumo off him and scrambled away with a curse. He was fast disappearing into the night, but Connor only had eyes for Sumo.

He slid to his knees beside the prone form. Connor’s wires must have been shorting out or something; there was static in his head and his processors weren’t working at optimal efficiency and how could things go so wrong so quickly? It didn’t make sense, it didn’t make _sense_. 

The RK800 was no stranger to violence, he dealt with it often enough working for the DPD. He should be _fine_ —but this was Sumo. This wasn’t supposed to happen to _Sumo_.

The St. Bernard’s side was sticky with blood. It glistened, almost black in the moonlight. Two gunshot wounds, perforating the stomach and chest. No exit wounds, as far as he could see. _Not an analysis that should have ever applied to Sumo, there was no need for analyses with Sumo; that was for crime scenes and homicides. They had nothing to do with Sumo._

A low keening escaped the dog with each unsteady breath, and the sound reached into Connor’s chest, strangling his thirium pump.

Should he call 911? No, that was only for human emergencies. Where was the nearest veterinary hospital? 

> > Searching…
> 
> Nearest Result: Patterson Dog & Cat Hospital
> 
> Address: 3800 Grand River Ave, Detroit, MI 48208
> 
> Phone: (313) 832-7282

Connor ripped off his hoodie as he called the number remotely, and his LED would have turned yellow had it not already been blinking bright red. He tried to rip the fabric of the old hoodie, but his hands were shaking so badly that after a few tries he abandoned the effort. _Can’t waste any time. No time, no time, no time._

He gathered the fabric into two roughly even bunches and hovered above Sumo’s side, prepared to apply pressure.

“Hey, big guy,” he said softly, “I’m going to have to press down on this to try to stop the bleeding. It might not feel so great, but I promise I’m only trying to help.” He settled the hoodie over the dog, hands at the location of the gunshot wounds. He compressed the wads of fabric over them both and Sumo’s low keening gave way to a higher-pitched squeal, legs scrabbling.

Connor flinched bodily and reflexively eased up. But he couldn’t allow Sumo to bleed out. He had to stem the bleeding. He _had_ to. He bit his lip and pressed down again while his thirium pump tried to pound itself straight out of his throat.

“I know it hurts, buddy,” his voice cracked. “I know.” Sumo whimpered and whined, the sound occasionally reaching that tortured timbre. 

“I know, I know,” he whispered, his head bowed and vision blurring. “You’re doing good, you’re doing _so good_ , Sumo. Just hang in there.”

The call had failed. Hours were from 9 am to 5 pm. Connor’s hands fisted in the folds of the hoodie, which was now growing dark and damp with blood. 

_Come on, come on,_ **think**. Most likely other veterinary hospitals were also closed—what had he been _doing_ , just calling up the nearest one? Obviously most of them would be closed for the night. What he needed was to look specifically for _twenty-four-hour_ emergency pet clinics.

> > Searching...
> 
> Nearest Result: Affiliated Veterinary Emergency Service
> 
> Address: 15220 Southfield Rd, Allen Park, MI 48101
> 
> Phone: (313) 389-1700

Connor called the facility and explained the situation in a tumble of words. 

“Please come quickly,” he finished, desperation coloring his tone.

“I’m sorry sir,” a polite female voice said at the other end of the line. Likely another android. “We don’t have a pet ambulance, per se. Most veterinary hospitals don’t. They do exist, however. For example, there is a hospital in Connecticut that—”

“But you’re still open, right?”

“That is correct. If you can transport your injured pet to AVES for medical care, we are a full-service veterinary emergency center equipped to care for any pet emergency or critical care situation, at any time of day or ni—”

“Thank you,” Connor hung up. He shifted, calculating distances and travel times. _Okay, okay, okay. The hospital is twelve miles from Hank’s house, roughly a fifteen-minute drive. We just have to make it back to the house and then get on our way. Sumo might be heavy, but I can carry him. That’s doable, right?_

“Yeah, we can do this. You can make it,” he muttered, shifting a bit. “We’ll get you to that hospital and you’ll be fixed up in no time. You can go back to ignoring everything I say, and you can chew my shoes, and maybe I’ll even fetch a stick or two for y—” his throat closed off.

“Sumo?”

Sumo had stopped whimpering. Connor leaned in close, desperate to see or feel a sign of life. 

A shallow brush of air skimmed past his cheek, but the knot in his chest didn’t go away. He risked moving one of his hands to pat Sumo’s head.

“Come on, buddy, open those big brown eyes of yours for me, will you? I’ll have to pick you up to get to the hospital, but I wanna know you’re still with me.”

Connor had to lean in close to check again, just to make sure Sumo was still breathing. A breeze swept past, blowing through Connor’s thin shirt and chilling the dampness on his face.

His free hand tangled in Sumo’s thick coat, and his face crumpled. The hospital might have a million miles away for all the good it would do.

“Stay.” The word crawled out of his mouth, small and fragile and wavering. 

“Stay, okay?” His throat constricted. “I...I know I said I wouldn’t try to order you around anymore, and I’m not—I’m n—I’m just asking. Please. Don’t go.” 

_“Stay,”_ he whispered.

But Sumo was never the most obedient of dogs.

**Author's Note:**

> You can thank Pinterest for the existence of this. Two pins showed up on my feed near each other--a dramatic artwork from a different fandom with a dead character with the word "stay," and a bit further down, a cute dog picture. Naturally, it got me thinking about the potential to combine these two things. I was having more fun than expected with the fluff and considered tying it off there, but ultimately decided to go through with my original plan. I realize it may have been a bit jarring, but that was also kind of part of the point.


End file.
